


friendship (a little more than friendship) bracelets

by eyes_to_the_sky



Category: Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: (some vague hand-wavey logic), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Red String of Fate, kryptonians can see the red strings, little bit of angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyes_to_the_sky/pseuds/eyes_to_the_sky
Summary: Jonathan Kent is born into the world with a happy gurgle and tiny hands flailing for the shiny red strings that sway enticingly in his vision.His mother coos at him, cherry nails tapping at his small nose, and he makes a grab at her finger with his chubby hands to pop it into his mouth.His father laughs, a little breathlessly as he runs gentle fingers over Jon’s cheeks, and leans over him to press his lips to his mother’s forehead. Jon giggles cutely and reaches out to grab a thin thread that’s draped itself over his mother’s shoulder, winding it around his fingers.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 7
Kudos: 350





	friendship (a little more than friendship) bracelets

**Author's Note:**

> last of the old works, i think! speed read through this one before posting it
> 
> may or may not be wildly OOC on account of the fact that this was literally written two years ago

Jonathan Kent is born into the world with a happy gurgle and tiny hands flailing for the shiny red strings that sway enticingly in his vision. 

His mother coos at him, cherry nails tapping at his small nose, and he makes a grab at her finger with his chubby hands to pop it into his mouth. 

His father laughs, a little breathlessly as he runs gentle fingers over Jon’s cheeks, and leans over him to press his lips to his mother’s forehead. Jon giggles cutely and reaches out to grab a thin thread that’s draped itself over his mother’s shoulder, winding it around his fingers. 

.

One year old, he stumbles towards the outstretched arms of his mother, his fathers hands hovering protectively beside his waist. Unsteady on his feet, he trips over a taut scarlet wire, and makes a small sound of surprise as he falls. There’s an oomph as his mother’s hands catch him against her chest, and then she’s carrying him up to kiss him on the cheek with her bright red lipstick. He squeals and kicks his legs, clapping his hands together in delight. His father leans over him to kiss his mother, and Jon takes comfort in the steady thump thump thump of the heartbeat resonating in the body behind him and the light laughter that shakes through the body in front. 

.

He’s three, and he likes to spend quiet mornings sitting on the floor of the kitchen making messy holes in the red string that’s piled on the tiles. His parents think he’s just a particularly well-behaved child, if a little clumsy walking around, and they take time for themselves to stand together by the counter, sides pressed together and quiet words bubbling from their lips as they sip slowly from their steaming mugs. Krypto snuffles heavily at his side, head lying on top of his crossed paws. His breaths make the thin threads ruffle gently. 

Jon pats the dog’s head, stumbling to his feet with the intent of walking over to his parents, and promptly trips over a wayward line of thread. His father sets his cup down on the countertop with a gasp and zooms faster than Jon can see to catch him around the waist before he can hit the floor, Jon’s face ending up planting into his father’s flannel. Krypto makes a sound as he noses at Jon’s back in concern. Jon giggles happily, squishing his hands over his father’s cheeks. “Daddy!” He says clearly, and his father grins, relieved. 

“Yeah, Jonno. You gotta be careful with those legs of yours, you hear me? ‘M not always gonna be around to catch you, y’know?” 

Jon nods. “I know,” he says, and slaps his father’s cheeks. “Up!” 

“Bossy,” his mother teases behind them as his father hoists him into his arms with an exaggerated groan. “Please,” Jon adds, as his father plants a kiss on his cheek. 

“He takes after you,” his father says with a fond smile and his mother gasps in a way that makes laughter bubble from Jon’s lips. He claps his hands joyfully. “Do it again!” 

His mother raises an eyebrow before mock gasping again, even louder this time, and Jon bursts into peals of laughter. His mom grins and sets her mug down on the counter too as she walks closer. “You having a good time?” She gasps again, mouth and eyes comically wide and Jon almost falls from his father’s arms in his delight. “Well, brace yourself!” 

His mother’s fingers attack his sides before he has the chance to react and he shrieks with glee, chubby legs kicking out at his attacker. “Mommy!” 

“Get him, Lois!” His father says with a wide smile as he captures Jon flailing arms in a large hand, small body still held securely to his chest. Fingers dance over his stomach and dig into the soles of his feet and he twists to try and escape, eyes screwed shut in high pitched laughter. Krypto barks and skips around them, tongue lolling out as he shares in their mirth. 

.

When he’s five, he walks into a classroom for the very first time. He looks around in open curiosity as his mother tangles their fingers loosely, red lips curving into a smile as she greets the teacher. There’s string on the tables, twining around desk legs like vines and disappearing into the cracks in the walls. He looks down at his feet, kicking one out and watching in utter fascination as what looks like the entire classroom moves like a rippling crimson lake. Overlapping threads slides off tables like water, pooling on the ground. 

His mother lets go of his hand and rests it on his shoulder, and he waves absentmindedly when she tells him to behave himself. She shares another laugh with the teacher before leaving, heels clacking on the ground as they step right through inches of piled-up silk. 

Jon steps carefully over the thin red strings that look so delicate, and his teacher touches his shoulder with a laugh. 

“What are you doing?” She asks him with mirthful eyes, and he looks up at her solemnly. “You can’t step on the lines,” he tells her, with a slight lisp on his ’s’, “if you do, they’ll break.” 

She just laughs again and tells him that she’d like to join in too. She steps through quite a few of the threads, fine scarlet lines slicing straight through the flesh of her calf, but Jon just tells her she’s doing fine and to keep going. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, after all. 

He runs out of the classroom the moment the lunch bell rings, ducking and weaving around strings that dangle from the ceiling, laughing as his classmate’s fingers graze the hem of his shirt. He hears the pattering of sneakers against linoleum behind him, drawing closer, and he just twists his head to stick out his tongue at his pursuers as he runs out into the sun, strings tangled around his legs. 

Later, when the game is over and done, the boys ask him whether he’d like to join them on the playground. 

“No thanks,” he says absentmindedly as he tries to shake the tangled strings off his legs. One gets caught in the velcro of his shoes and he bends to pull it off, hand steadying himself on the brick of the school. There’s some mumbling from above him, feet shuffling in his vision, before the group leaves with some jostling and mumbled comments. Jon barely even looks up to smile as he flings the offending string off his shoes. 

He bends down to the ground and picks up a thin red thread, running a finger over it lightly. “What do you think these are for?” He asks a classmate standing nearby, a nice girl with blue ribbons in her hair who offered to share her lunch with him during break. She gives him a strange look. “What are what for?”

“The string, I mean,” he says, gesturing to the miles of silk lines that cover the ground as far as the eye can see, looping over seesaws and threading themselves through colourful monkey bars. “Why are they there? What do people use them for?” 

She stares at him for some time, looking down at the string and then back up to his face. “You’re weird,” she announces and flounces off to join her group of friends, her own length of string trailing behind her. Jon remains squatted, red thread laid carefully over his palm and a confused look on his face.

He spends the rest of recess by himself. 

.

When he’s seven, he pauses too long outside the school doors to run an admiring hand over a shimmering red string, and two older boys shove him down the school steps. He picks himself off the ground, cheek scraped and bleeding, and yells at them. The boys scoff. 

One asks him what the hell he was looking at and he points angrily at the looping threads like an intricate spiderweb over the entire school. “The string,” he says, annoyed. 

They look at the building, then back to him with sarcastic faces. “Freak,” one says and Jon leaps at him angrily only to be swatted aside like a pesky fly. He struggles to his feet, palms scraped red and feet stumbling over tangled silk. His vision stains incarnadine at the edges. “What’s wrong?” They mock. “Gonna cry to your mommy?” 

When his mother asks him about the bruises on his face later during dinner, he tells her he tripped going down the stairs. He doesn’t look at her when he says it, using his fork to twirl the red string covering the table into a whirlpool. He can feel his dad’s eyes boring into his head like lasers. 

He’s eight, and his dad comes into his room an hour after dinner to sit down on his bed and tell him all about the red strings. It turns out he’s not human, and he feels a little betrayed until his dad tells him all about Krypton, about Superman, and then he doesn’t feel so bad about it anymore. 

He’s bursting with questions about his dad’s life as Superman, about everything else, but he sits propped against pillows and listens obediently as his dad explains how the strings connect two people, sometimes more, who belong together. It’s unique to humans, he learns, and kryptonians are one of the few species who can actually see the thin red threads. Mom comes in not soon after, both wrists empty of anything but a watch with a cherry-coloured strap that his dad got her for their anniversary, and picks Jon up to place him in her lap. She settles against the pillows, smiling softly when Jon turns her wrists over to examine them. 

That same night, they spend a couple hours trying to teach Jon how to make it so that the strings don’t tangle and wind themselves around his limbs. He concentrates hard, nibbling at his lip and brow furrowing with the effort, and after a while three of the strings slip through his thighs. It should tingle, but Jon doesn’t feel a thing. All this time, his dad regales him with tales about the Justice League, about the missions far into deep space when Jon thought he was away working on a story for the Daily Planet, about how he’s friends with the Flash and Green Lantern and Wonder Woman (Jon almost faints when he hears this) and how Martian Manhunter once transformed into Beyonce and how Batman was a grumpy grouch who pretended he didn’t put more cream into his coffee than actual coffee. 

(Jon suddenly remembers the times that people have stopped his dad on the street to tell him that he looked a lot like Superman, and he starts laughing. His mom asks him what he’s laughing about, and once he tells her she starts laughing too. Soon all three of them are in fits, Jon almost falling off the side of the bed in peals of giggles and eventually it evolves into an all-out tickle war. He and his mother gang up against his dad, fingers wriggling over his sides until he shouts his defeat.) 

He falls asleep with his mom’s hands in his hair and his dad’s voice in his ear, fading shades of blue and purple on his cheek.

.

When he’s nine, he sees a pair meet for the first time. 

He’s out with his mother shopping for Christmas outfits, snow partially obscuring the strings on the pavement and glittering from the warm light of the streetlamps. She stops at the stall of an old street vendor, pointing towards a scarf coloured a deep blue and glittering with embroidered gold stars. The old woman smiles toothily and unhooks the scarf with utmost care, handing it over for Jon’s mother to run her fingers gently over the translucent material. Jon lets his eyes drift around, hand gripping the sleeve of his mother’s coat. 

He sees a woman, raven hair piled messily on her head and scarlet coat collar pulled up to her cheekbones, tapping quickly on her phone as she swerves around people on the busy sidewalk. Out of pure habit, Jon’s eyes find the string tied neatly around her wrist and follows it downwards until it meets with all the other endless threads on the sidewalk—

—and curves right back out again, and his eyes trail with it until it comes to its end, looped and knotted around a slender wrist right next to a worn watch. It’s another lady, a little shorter than his mother, long brown hair the colour of rich soil and eyes wide as she takes in the fairy lights strung on the streetlamps, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sweater. Jon holds his breath as the string becomes shorter and shorter, until there’s just three feet of space between them.

He had expected a bit more if he was being honest, a sudden bloom of light when they touch, or maybe a crescendo of music like he always sees in movies. None of this happens. Instead, when the brown-haired woman stumbles and trips upon bumping into another faceless passerby, the taller lady’s first instinct is to drop her phone to catch the other against her chest, and there’s nothing more than a surprised exhalation of breath that hovers in the cold air. 

Still, he finds he can’t look away when the second woman blushes, righting herself with a squeaked apology lost in the bustling noise of the crowd around them. The black-haired woman says something with a smile, and her eyes drift to her cracked phone lying on the sidewalk. The other puts her hands to her mouth and says something through her fingers, cheeks glowing as red as the string around her wrist. The first woman looks back to her and shrugs lightly, saying something inaudible. He sees the shorter woman laugh and brush away a stray hair, silk thread pulling taut like a hooked fishing line and the other woman’s lips part with a slight smile, breath stolen away in white puffs of air. 

His mother tugs him away with her purchases in hands and he follows without complaint, feet stepping a little more cautiously over the crisscrossing gossamer. 

.

When he’s ten, he meets Damian Wayne. He’d really like to add that he didn’t actually intend to. Or want to, for that matter. 

It’s Christmas party at school, and he’s just heading out of the doors with Kathy when someone collides into them, sending papers flying over the steps. 

Jon’s quick to pick up his cap and extend a hand to the dark-skinned girl at his feet, sheepish smile on his face. “So sorry about that, I didn’t see you, um…”

“Maya,” the girl says with a smile and lets Jon help her to her feet, righting her jacket on her shoulders. 

“Jon,” he introduces with his ever-present smile that his father says makes him look friendly but inconspicuous. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. How are you…feeling?”

“Feeling…fine,” Jon says slowly, and there’s a strange look in Maya’s bright eyes when she replies. Kathy fidgets behind them, and Jon had almost forgotten she was there. Kathy asks the girl who she is, and the girl avoids the questions with a leisurely wave. 

“Me? I’m nobody,” she says, and tells Jon it was nice to meet him as she turns to leave, but Jon’s eyes can’t seem to tear away from her wrist. 

Jon grabs his friend by the shoulder quickly. “Kathy—!”

Kathy turns, alarm written clearly on her face, but by that time the girl has already vanished in the colourful crowd. “What is it?”

“It’s…” Jon searches desperately with his eyes, but the girl is nowhere to be seen and Kathy’s thread has drooped lifelessly to the floor. He slumps in defeat. “Never mind,” he says and turns to his friend with a small smile. “She was nice.” 

Kathy gives him a long, searching look before shrugging and tugging him down the steps towards their bikes. With a frown, Jon notes that Maya never picked up her papers. 

Later, they’re pushing their bikes into Dead Man’s Swamp, and Kathy cycles away with cryptic words and a dark look in her eyes. Jon nibbles at his lip in a nervous habit as she goes, before heading off to try and find that tree that his father wanted. 

Scarlet strings loop and dangle from twisted branches, shimmering in the moonlight, stark against the shadows. Somewhere along the line the branch he’s on snaps, and quick as a blink there’s fire in a blazing circle around him. 

He doesn’t remember the trip to the lab, probably due to the fall he took after being dropped from the sky, but when he opens his eyes there’s wires everywhere he looks, and he’s strapped down to a metal table that’s tilted so that he’s nearly upright. 

Needless to say, his first meeting with Robin wasn’t a dream. 

They yell and then they fight and then their dads make them apologise so they do, but they just end up fighting again anyway. 

The next day, they’re off to boot camp, and it’s the start of another adventure. 

.

Eleven years old, and he and Robin have just stopped someone from burning an apartment building into crumbling ash. He lands on the ground, cheeks stained black with charcoal, young girl clinging to his neck like a lifeline. A woman breaks free from the hold of a paramedic, tears making tracks down dirty cheeks as she shouts for her daughter. Jon releases the girl from his hold and the sobbing mother sweeps her up as Jon stills, eyes fixed on the crimson string around her wrist. It’s shiny and catches the light of the dying fire, contrasting sharply against the dust covering her skin. The mother and daughter rock together, small girl crying into her mother’s shoulder, the broken thread swaying with them in their movement and Jon thinks he’s going to be sick. The mother lifts her head from her daughter’s dirty hair, mouthing a tearful ‘thank you’ to the young hero, and he can’t do anything more than smile weakly and fly away to where Damian is crouched on top of an adjourning building. 

Distantly, he can hear the woman asking her daughter ‘where’s your father? He was in mommy’s bedroom, sweetheart, did you see him when Superboy rescued you?’ and Jon stutters mid-flight like an ailing bird, barely catching himself on the edge of the rooftop. He just manages to swing a leg over the ledge to land hard on his knees on the concrete before he covers his mouth and muffles a short scream into his dirty hands. 

_(“Any more survivors, Superboy?”_

_Jon extends his hearing in every direction in a hundred meter radius and shakes his head, picking up the child. “No, building’s clear.” Robin nods sharply, not doubting his judgement, and shoots a line towards the building across the road. “Get her to safety, then meet back up with me.”_

_“Yes, sir.” Jon smiles gently down at the tearful girl as Damian leaps off the windowsill. “You’ll be okay, yeah?” He hovers in the air for a moment as the girl wraps her arms around his neck, twisting her fingers in his hoodie. The string around her wrist tickles his neck. “I’ll keep you safe.”)_

There were no more heartbeats, he thinks, and distantly he feels hands running over his back, through his hair, covering his cheeks firmly, Damian calling his name. There were no more, he says, or maybe cries, he doesn’t know. 

“Jon,” he hears Damian say, and he struggles to control his tears. 

Damian stays with him, hand soothing over his back, until the roiling mass in his stomach quietens and he can breathe in oxygen again. 

“Thanks for that,” Jon says later, quiet in his room. Damian always drops him off at home first as if to show Jon’s parents that he can bring his friends home in one piece. Sometimes he stays for a while before leaving. 

Damian’s fingers slow on his keyboard, and there’s a small pause as if he were deciding what to say. 

“Don’t apologise for mourning loss of life,” is what his friend seems to decide on in the end, and the words sound like he’s quoting them from somewhere. His eyes staying firmly fixed on the screen in front of him though he was playing with his fingers distractedly, and Jon flashes him a grateful smile though he’s not looking his way. He’s pretty sure Damian knows, though, because the clack of keys starts up again. 

.

He’s twelve and his dad takes him out to space for the first time. 

In all honesty, they’re flying out to take care of some alien diplomatic relations with Uncle Hal or something similar and Jon had spent days begging his dad to take him along because pleeeaase dad? Damian’s away on a mission with the Titans and I’ve finished all my algebra and aliens are so cool dad, please—it was Lois that finally gave in and practically tossed him at his father, demanding that he take him along for the sake of the big story she had coming up. His father had finally said yes, then, because he could never say no to his mother. Although to be fair, no sane person would ever say no to Lois Lane when it really came down to things. 

And even though he’s so excited to finally travel to another planet, Jon can’t help but want to take some time to hover in inky darkness and look down to earth, and his father doesn’t begrudge him when he asks. So he drifts there, cape hanging limply behind him and lungs expanding but taking in no air as he absorbs the beauty of his planet—because it was his planet, no matter what his kryptonian biology said. It was where his school was, where his friends were, where he scraped his knee for the first time, where he first discovered how to fly. Krypton was his origin, but Earth was his home. 

From where they are, the sun is shining brightly down the the surface of the planet, and all the continents look like they’re tinted a faint red from all the paper-thin threads that crisscross the globe. It reminds him of those large boards that his mom keeps in her study, colourful string pinned messily onto connecting photographs like one giant art piece and holes in the cork where there used to be thumbtacks. Jon’s eyes follow one single string that extends straight up out of Central City, past the atmosphere and across a hundred and thirty kilometres of vacuum to wrap itself neatly around the Green Lantern’s left wrist where he’s gesturing animatedly as he talks with Jon’s dad. The red shimmers brightly in the warm light of the sun behind them. 

.

He turned thirteen two days ago, and today is the soonest that the two of them could sneak out of their respective homes to finally spend some time together. 

Damian and Jon sit on the edge of one of Gotham’s many rooftops, legs dangling over empty air and melting ice cream dripping onto their fingers. The two boys are pressed so close that Jon almost thinks that maybe they’ve melded into one being. For the moment, they’re not Robin and Superboy, partners in crime, they’re not Bruce Wayne’s son and a nobody from Kansas who happen to go to the same school. Right now, thirty stories above the pavement and the rest of the population looking like ants below them, they’re just Damian and Jon, two best friends sitting in each other’s comforting presence and still in their school uniforms, licking bits of dessert of their fingertips. Damian’s heartbeat thuds in Jon’s ears, a steady tempo to the constant chatter that spills from Jon’s lips. 

He tells another corny joke and Damian blinks at him, and there’s silence for all of a moment—

—before a laugh rips itself from Damian’s lips and the older boy falls backwards in honest-to-god fits of laughter, and Jon finds himself gaping at the sight. 

“Oh my god,” Damian wheezes, rolling onto his side. “That was horrible, Kent, you’re so lame—“

“You’re laughing!” Jon protests, tiny giggles escaping his throat and smile threatening to split his face in half.

“I know, oh my god, that was so bad—“

And Jon thinks that maybe one of the many crimson threads dangling from the rooftops must have wrapped itself taut around his neck and pulled, because there is no other explanation for the sudden tightness in his throat when he hears Damian’s laughter ring out in the empty rooftops like birdsong. 

.

When he’s fourteen, after the guests have long come and gone and Damian had bid him goodbye at the front door with a mischievous look in his eyes, Robin taps lightly at the glass of his bedroom window and Jon’s immediately up in bed to tug it open. 

“Get ready,” Damian says shortly, excited grin on his face that’s soon covered by him pulling the top of his uniform over his head to reveal civilian clothes underneath. 

“You could have just stayed over,” Jon tells him with no small amount of fondness and exasperation as he throws off the covers and stretches out his denim-clad legs. Damian raises an eyebrow, the most surprise he’ll ever admit to showing, as he kicks off his boots. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Jon’s dad absolutely knows that they’re sneaking out together, Jon can tell by the sudden stillness coming from his parents’ room when Damian, clad in a black turtleneck and dark jeans, slides back out the window onto the fire escape outside it. Maybe it’s because it’s Jon’s birthday, or maybe his father is just too tired after the party to bother about his son and his best friend sneaking out at eleven at night, but no one calls out to stop them. 

The both of them make their way as quietly as they can down the outside of the building, experience and training allowing Jon to make hardly a sound as his feet pattered down the rickety escape. Damian, in front of him, moves like a ghost. 

“Where are we going?” Jon whispers as Damian vaults over the railing to land solidly on the pavement, Jon following soon after. 

“You’ll see,” Damian whispers back. 

It’s close to one in the morning, and Metropolis is quiet save for the gentle purr of the occasional car in the streets and the stifled giggle of two young boys as they sprint to a concealed motorcycle and take off towards the city outskirts with barely a sound. 

Damian’s manoeuvres the bike effortlessly through almost empty streets, hardly slowing down as he takes corners and Jon’s heart rises into his throat as their speed increases, engine running smoothly under them. The lights of the city start to blur together into a streak, and Jon’s arms wrap more firmly around Damian waist as he leans his head against Damian’s back. Damian laughs softly, and the sound of it vibrates through his chest. 

Before Jon knows it, he can feel the bike slowing steadily under him. He opens his eyes, not even sure when they closed, to find a dark expanse of sky and a sea of long, shadowy grass, swaying in the wind like the waves of an ocean. 

Jon lifts his head, somewhat unhappily, from Damian’s back and unwinds his arms from his waist as the older boy kicks out the kickstand and climbs off the motorcycle, tugging off his helmet at the same time. Jon does the same, turning to gaze at the city behind them, shadows of skyscrapers against a night sky, buildings lit with a scattering of light from windows. 

They must be about a mile out of the city, Jon thinks. 

From a compartment hidden somewhere on the bike, it seems Damian had managed to remove a feast. Laying down a dark blue blanket, Jon helps him to set out a bottle of soda, four sandwiches, two containers of fruits and a jar of Nutella. Jon eyes the final one with excitement. 

There aren’t as many strings this far out of the city, but there are still many that skim the grass or stretch taut high over his head. Jon reaches out for one and flicks it, watches it quiver and imagines he can hear the note it produces. 

.

“Is everyone out?” The officer shouts to Jon, and Jon nods, a little breathless, as he sets down a frightened but unharmed boy, covered in dirt and tiny bits of what used to be a building. 

“He’s okay,” Jon reassures the father who falls to his knees who embrace his son. “He was really brave in there, weren’t you, pal?” The last question is directed to the young boy, who stares up at him in awe. 

“Superboy,” Jon’s comm sparks to life in his ear. “Are you alright?” 

Stepping away from the pair of civilians, Jon presses a finger to his ear and can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face. “Yeah, I am. Sorry, no reception inside a collapsed basement, apparently.” 

“Idiot,” Damian says, and Jon can hear the relief in his voice. “I have the rest of the soldiers in police custody, but I’m on the west side of the building. I’ll meet you on your side.” 

“Aye aye, captain,” Jon says cheerfully, and all he gets in response is a click of the tongue before the comm goes silent. 

A commotion near the lined-up ambulances caught his attention. 

Curiously, Jon made his way over, squeezing past groups of people with soft apologies. Just at the back of one of the ambulances from Gotham Central Hospital, a man with blood covering one side of his shirt has a disagreement with a paramedic, people around them giving them weary glances. 

“Sit down, sir,” the man frowns and pushes firmly at his chest. “You’re going to need something for your head.” 

“No, I don’t,” the man insists, trying to stand on shaky feet, bloodied fingers reaching out to grab at the paramedic's wrist and leaving a red circle behind. “I need to go, I need to—“

“Sir!” The man barks, and it’s enough of a shock for the guy to let the medic grab his arms and force him to sit on the floor of an ambulance. 

“You’re bleeding,” the medic says firmly. “It’s not too serious, but it’s serious enough for you to be in a whole lotta trouble if you don’t let me stitch it up right now, so how about you just sit quiet and let me do my job, huh?” 

The man stares up at him, mouth agape, and perhaps it was just the blood loss talking, but he nods. The paramedic jerks his head sharply. 

“Right. Stay still.” The man grimaces as his wound is cleaned and the needle works in and out, in and out. Their connected strings sway between them as the medic's fingers stitch deftly. 

“It’s not perfect,” Jon hears him say when he straightens, “—but it’ll keep you until you can get to a hospital. Which you need to.” 

“Right,” the man says quietly, and looks up at the medic. “Thank you.” 

There’s a smile tugging at the edges of his lips when he replies. “No problem.” 

Jon smiles, holds his breath as he watches them. 

“Oh my god!” There’s another voice that drags Jon’s attention away, and the man spins to look at a woman sprinting towards them. He staggers to her feet as she nears, forcing the paramedic to step back. “Kellen!” 

The woman runs full-pelt into the man’s arms and they spin around with the momentum, man sobbing into her hair and tears leaving tracks on his dirtied shirt. Their hands clutch at each other protectively, and their wedding rings wink in the sunlight. The thin red thread winds around and around their legs, and tangles in the woman’s hair where the man has buried his hands, sobbing as he rests his forehead against hers. 

Jon feels like his lungs have turned to stone. 

The couple parts with a tearful gasp and a press of their foreheads together. The wife looks over her husband’s shoulder to see the medic standing behind him, and removes herself from his arms to walk over. 

“Thank you,” she puts a hand on the paramedic’s shoulder, grateful smile on her face as she scrubs at her cheeks to erase any tears and covers her mouth to hide her wobbly smile. “Thank you so much.” 

Jon can hear the small stutter in the paramedic’s breath as he smiles weakly at the lady before him, then the man. 

“I didn’t do anything, ma’am,” the man says with a small bow. “I just made your husband sit still long enough to stop him from bleeding out.” 

They laugh a little together, and the man walks up behind his wife to rest a hand on her shoulder. 

“Superboy!” Jon turns, and Damian’s eyes are dancing with adrenaline and barely-concealed affection under his domino mask. He jerks his head towards the streets. “You coming?”

Jon spares one last glance at the quiet paramedic, now tending to a little boy with a scratch on his cheek, and shakes his head. 

“Nah, you go ahead,” Jon offers him a slightly forced grin and waves him off. “I’ve got to help out my mum with something for dad’s birthday.”

Damian looks a little disappointed, and Jon feels the need to add, “Tomorrow?”

Robin shrugs and offers him a small smile, saluting him playfully, and his bare wrists seem to glint mockingly at him. 

.

Sixteen, he’s behind the block of science buildings two minutes after the dismissal bell’s rung, and he’s got Jake Meyers’ tongue shoved halfway down his throat. 

Jake’s on his team for football, and they’ve been tentatively flirting back and forth for a week now. He’s not his soulmate, Jake’s string had extended way out of town and far beyond Jon’s vision, but he was definitely interested, and Jon figured what the hell. The guy’s not half bad, he’s sweet and smart and helped Jon out when he was having trouble finding a book in the library. Not to mention he’s cute as hell, and a damn good kisser to boot. 

Which doesn’t explain why Jon doesn’t feel anything when he pulls back after a while, no dizziness or need to continue. Just a little confusion and hesitance that leaves him staring into eyes that he wishes were kryptonite green instead. 

Jake grins a little sheepishly. “That didn’t do anythin’ for you?” 

Jon ducks his head and chuckles a little. “Not really,” he says, and adds a “sorry,” because now he kind of feels a little bad about the whole flirting part. Jake just shrugs and leans back, his hands falling from their position on either side of Jon’s head, letting Jon take a bit of his weight off the brick wall of the building. Jon bites his lip and shuffles his feet, entangling them in strings. 

“S’alright. Was a long shot, anyway.” Jake extends a hand. “Friends?” 

Jon blinks a little in surprise, before smiling and shaking it. “Sure.” 

Jake’s face splits into a grin, and he swings an arm around Jon’s neck, hauling him in close and they walk out into the sun. “That your first kiss?” 

“First with a guy,” Jon says and bats at Jake’s face. “Get off’a me, you ass.”

“No, really?” Jake releases him and Jon rights his glasses with a mock scowl. “You’re pretty good at it.” 

Jon snorts and shoves the other boy playfully. “Shut up.” He raises a hand towards a familiar figure in the distance. “Shit, that’s Damian. Catch you later, Jake!” 

Jake waves him off. “Practice tomorrow, Kent?” 

“Sure!” Jon makes a thumbs-up sign, coupled with a sweet smile, before turning and jogging towards his best friend leaning against the school gates. “Hey!” 

“Jon.” Damian greets crisply and spares a look up from his phone. He’d turned nineteen last month, graduated from the same school last year, but he’s taking a gap year before he flies off to college. Most days, he still waits for Jon outside of his school if he doesn’t have other obligations, even though Jon’s far past the age to need a chaperone or to bother Alfred to fly a chopper to come pick him up. Jon appreciates it, and he knows he’ll miss it when Damian goes off for his little trip around the world in the later months. 

Damian seems about to turn back to whatever he was doing before he stills, and very obviously drags his eyes back up to Jon’s figure and examines him from head to toe. Jon crosses his arms, suddenly keenly aware of the way his breaths are coming a little fast and he feels flushed still. “What?” 

“You were late.” 

“Yes?”

“Because you were making out with one of your team members.” 

“That’s…” Jon throws his hands up. “Right. I don’t even wanna know.” 

“Your collar is wrinkled, your hair is a mess, and your breath smells like Meyers’ disgusting apple mints.” Consciously, Jon licks his lips and tastes the sweet tang of green apple. 

“How did you…?”

“I’m the world’s greatest detective,” Damian says, and it sounds almost upset as he shoves his phone into his pocket. Jon’s left there, stunned, as Damian spins and stalks out of the school, passing through the crisscross network of crimson threads that hangs from the iron gates. “Well, don’t let me drag you away from your fun.” 

“What? No, it’s not like that,” Jon says as he jogs to catch up, mentally cursing Damian’s growth spurt in the past two years. “We kissed, yeah. But neither of us were really into it. We’re friends. It’s cool.” 

“Right.” 

“It’s true!” 

“I never said it wasn’t,” Damian says, but his voice is a little softer at the edges now so Jon doesn’t push any more. They walk in silence for a moment before Damian speaks up. 

“I was unaware you preferred boys.” 

Jon just shrugs and stuffs a hand into his pocket, feeling light. The fingers of his other hand trails over the brick wall of the school, over crawling ivy and following a red string that leads along the wall and around the corner. “Yeah, me neither. I’ll figure it out.” 

.

Seventeen years old, and he’s in Damian’s apartment just after a successful mission, hair still damp from shower and limbs sprawled out on the silk cover of Damian’s bed. He’s pretty sure his pyjama top is on backwards. 

Turning his head as the bathroom door clicks open, he watches as Damian walks out, steam curling out of the bathroom as he does so because of course dramatics seem to follow the Bats like a shadow. 

“Move over,” Damian grumbles, actually grumbles, and Jon sniggers as he rolls onto his back, making room for his friend to sit with a sigh. Jon observes him quietly, breaths coming slow. 

Damian had grown out his hair a little during the time he had been hopping around the world, though never enough for him to come across as anything but immaculate. They’d skyped or called almost daily, and more than once Jon had heard bone breaking over the line as he entertained Damian with the latest school drama, or had been throwing punches of his own as Damian told him about the birds he’d seen on his walk. 

Right now, his hair looks like someone had thrown a hurricane his way, sticking up at odd angles and bizarre shapes. Jon struggles not to laugh at the sight. It is a sharp contrast to the silk robe, a shade of red so dark it is almost black, with gilded designs that wind their way up the cloth. The flowery patterns shimmer as Damian reaches over to the bedside table to grab a book. He imagines he can see the scarlet strings shiver where his friend’s arm passes through them. 

After a while, his eyes start to slip closed, lulled to sleep by the flipping of dry pages and the faint sound of violins coming from the earbuds that Damian had put in. He’s almost asleep when he becomes aware of the music being switched off and the sound of Damian’s book closing. 

He pries his eyelids open to see Damian staring down at the cover of his book. Harry Potter. Jon had insisted he read it once he realised that Damian had never when he was younger. He’s on the last book by now. 

“You done?” Jon asks, words coming a little slow. “How was it?” 

Damian glances towards him. “Potter shouldn’t have named his son after that vile man,” he says, and Jon can tell that isn’t what’s wrong at all. 

He waits for Damian to put the book back on the table, curls up his legs to make space for Damian to flop down onto the mattress. Only then does he hear, “Do you recall when you told me you could see soulmate strings?” 

“Sure,” Jon says, “You didn’t believe me and I had to try to convince you for half an hour.” 

Damian sniffs, but there’s a hint of a smile when he speaks. “I don’t generally believe people when they tell me outlandish things like ‘I can see strings that connect people to their soulmates’.” 

“We literally just defeated a being made out of sentient building parts.” 

“Point conceded.” 

A pause. When Jon looks over at his friend, Damian looks like he’s warring with himself. He opens his mouth, closes it with a frustrated expression. Jon doesn’t like it, so he leans over and kisses Damian on the corner of his lips. 

When he draws back, Damian looks even more conflicted than before. He hadn’t moved to kiss him back; hadn’t moved at all, really. Jon knows Damian would never touch him until he’s eighteen, and that they can talk about it then. That was what Damian had said when Jon had confessed to him his feelings. Jon hadn’t mind. He knew it was fair. 

“I was trying to ask you something.” It sounds strangled, and he can tell Damian’s fighting a blush. The tips of his ears are turning red. Jon exhales and flops back onto the bed, a smile on his lips as they tingle pleasantly. 

“Ask away.” It takes a bit for Damian to compose himself, but eventually he does. 

“Where does mine go?” And Jon had been expecting the question, knew it’d come as soon as he’d told Damian about them, but it doesn’t make it any easier to answer. He opens his mouth, closes it, and Damian’s expression is strangely vulnerable as he stares at the ceiling, not meeting Jon’s eyes. 

“You don’t… have one,” Jon says quietly, and Damian’s expression shutters. 

“Ah.” 

“It’s not just you, though,” Jon feels the need to add hastily, because Damian has that blank look on his face that means he’s hurt and that’s the last thing Jon wants, “—lots of people don’t have them. I mean, I know, like, three people who don’t have them. My mom doesn’t, because dad’s her soulmate, and kryptonians don’t have the string.” 

“Ah.” Damian’s still not meeting his eyes, but he sounds a little relieved. “Do… you have it? The string?” 

“No,” Jon says, and hauls his body up until it’s resting on the pillows at the headboard. He shifts and gets comfortable. “Half-krptonian. But I can see them.” 

“You said,” Damian says, and there’s the sarcasm. 

“Don’t be an ass,” Jon says without heat. He kicks out his leg to cross it over Damian’s. “Anyway, the strings don’t always work out. Some aren’t even romantic. Dick’s string leads to Wally.” 

The amused look Damian shoots him is enough to make him snort. 

“I’m fairly certain they’ve had feelings for another at one time or another,” Damian says. “But Gordon is good for him.” 

Jon hums in agreement. He does love it when Damian has to babysit for his eldest brother, because then they get to compete over who can make baby Thomas laugh the longest. 

“So,” Jon says, “you good?” 

Damian chuffs out a laugh. 

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, and something in the way he says the words tugs at a memory in Jon’s mind. He shoves it to the side, however, to focus on the way Damian has slipped his fingers into his, hesitant, and Jon squeezes them with confidence. He tips his head back against the headboard with a content sigh, and smiles at the glittering strings that cross the ceiling. 

They fall asleep like that, hand in hand. 

.

It’s his eighteenth birthday, and all his closest friends cram best they can into his parent’s living room. 

Damian had brought him out for the day, had come over at six in the morning to drag him out of bed (much to Jon’s chagrin) and brought him out for pancakes before they went out to the arcade, the movies, hopping around everywhere in Metropolis until finally Damian brought him home and Jon opened the door to glitter being thrown in his face and all his friends shouting happy birthday. He looked back, shocked, to Damian’s openly grinning face, before throwing his arms around his friend for a hug. Damian returns it without hesitation. 

“Happy birthday, Kent,” he says, and Jon lets go to beam at him before turning to greet the rest of his friends. 

Presents are exchanged, cakes are cut (they had to get more than one cake due to a few of the supers’ high metabolism, not that Jon was complaining), and someone had managed to procure a bottle of champagne that was soon passed around to be poured into glasses that were kept firmly out of reach of the younger ones. 

After, when everyone has gone, it is well past midnight. Jon thinks it might be past three, and hopes they weren’t noisy enough to disturb the neighbours. Kathy had went to bed half an hour ago, on account of the fact that she has to get up at six-thirty for a morning class. 

Jon lounges on the sofa, near dropping off to sleep, but he tips his head back into his best friend’s touch when it combs pleasantly through his hair. 

“You’re shiny,” Damian sounds amused, and his fingers come into Jon’s vision, tips glittering. Goddamn it. 

Jon groans. The glitter. 

“Move over,” Damian tells him, and Jon does so, perking up a little as Damian hops over the back of Jon’s couch to settle cross-legged beside him. There’s a box in his hands, wrapped up nicely in a crimson bow, and Jon is a hundred percent more awake now. 

“I haven’t given you your present yet,” Damian holds up the box and shakes it lightly, a faint rattling coming from within. Jon bounces on the couch, ignoring how much he must look like a child, hands impatiently tapping on his knees. Damian gives him a ‘really, Jon?’ look, before sighing and looking down at the present he’s holding. There’s a moment of hesitation where he turns it over in his hands, as if debating whether or not to actually give the gift, before he finally holds it out to Jon. 

Jon accepts the small box from Damian with a grateful smile, undoing the bow on top with more care than he’s ever done in his life. He removes the top, and finds himself speechless. 

Lying on a black satin pillow inside the box was a bracelet made of neatly plaited red string, ends capped with gold. 

For the first time in his life, Jon thinks that Damian looks unsure of himself. 

“You don’t have to wear it,” Damian blurts before Jon can say anything, fingers twisting anxiously in the sleeves of the black hoodie Jon got him last Christmas. “I just thought it’d be—I mean, I know how you feel about…” 

“It’s perfect,” Jon cuts him off, and Damian looks so dumbfounded that he can’t help but laugh, “I love it. Thank you.” 

Damian coughs, sounding strangled, the hints of a blush under his dark skin, and he looks adorable. 

“Well,” Damian says, and Jon wishes he had a camera because he’s never seen Damian look so flustered in his life, including the time he was once spelled and kissed Djinn. It’s a good look on him. “I know we haven’t discussed this, but I thought—maybe we—“ 

Jon laughs, a silly and affectionate sound, before he leans up to press his lips to Damian’s. 


End file.
